


Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread and Gasoline

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-19
Updated: 2006-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and his sons stop to rest for the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread and Gasoline

It started raining just after dark. John turned into a narrow, rutted lane a few miles outside of some forgettable little town. There was cotton in the fields on either side, but the farmhouse at the end of the drive was dark and looked like a stiff breeze would knock it over. He turned the car around and killed the engine, switched off the headlights and set the brake.

John rubbed a hand over his face, stifling a yawn. Lightning flashed in the west, but several seconds passed before the thunder followed.

"You can sleep, Dad." Dean was sitting in the passenger seat, his feet up on the dashboard. "I'll keep watch."

"I've got the first watch, kiddo," John said, looking over at his son and smiling. "And take your feet down."

With an exaggerated sigh, Dean dropped his feet the floor. Tattered sneakers, ratty jeans, that ninja turtles t-shirt that he just about refused to take off -- he was going to need new clothes before school started again. Seventh grade, though John could scarcely believe it. The summer had flown by.

John cracked the window a few inches, took a deep breath to taste the cool, damp air, listening to the patter of rain on the car and the crops outside. It was one of those summer storms that came out of nowhere and stayed all night, and he knew that in the morning the driveway they were on would be muddy, the fields dewy and misted and silent.

Rolling his shoulders and head, John felt out every ache and pain. His shoulder was sore and there were still splinters in his hands from the tumble he'd taken down the stairs, but he was more or less in one piece. It could've been worse. A night in the car wouldn't do him any favors, but there was nothing he could do about that. His last few cards had been rejected and he had all of twelve dollars in his wallet.

Seventh grade for Dean, third for Sammy. New clothes, new shoes, new notebooks, new pencils. New town to spend a few months in, new classifieds to scour for a temporary job. John thought of the maps in the shoebox in the trunk, ripped paper and soft folds and faded colors, red and blue highways in a network of veins over the state lines and tiny words. They'd go somewhere warm. Arizona or New Mexico, maybe, a town where the sun still shined in the winter. It'd been a while since they were out that way. He'd see where they ended up in a few weeks.

Warm raindrops struck his arm and face as he slid down in the seat. In the rearview mirror, John could see Sammy sound asleep on the back seat, wrapped up in one of the old green blankets they'd picked up at the Army surplus store. Sammy's hair fell in a shaggy mess over his eyes, but John knew that if he could see his younger son's face, it would be scrunched up with exhaustion, his cheeks red and streaked with dried tears. Sam hadn't wanted to leave the campground where he'd made friends with some vacationing kids; he hadn't wanted to eat a dinner of bread and peanut butter and apples in a grocery store parking lot; he hadn't wanted sleep in the car again.

It had been a long day. John tried to recalled if Dean had been that stubborn when he was eight years old. And he remembered what folks had warned him about when Sam was just a few months old, back in Lawrence, in another life: _You better watch out -- a baby as well-behaved as this one will grow up to be a hellion, no doubt about it._

John shook his head, sighing. Sam had been such a quiet, happy, easy-going infant, but he sure grew out of that in a hurry.

"Are you mad?"

John looked over. "I thought you were asleep," he said.

In a flash of lightning John saw Dean watching him steadily, narrow eyes and summer freckles, untrimmed hair under a faded baseball cap and that familiar expression that looked like Dean was about to say something he wasn't sure John wanted to hear.

Dean bit his lip and said all in one breath, "I didn't know it was that old lady who was summoning the spirits, honest I didn't."

Surprised, John frowned. "I know that," he said. "I didn't know it was her, either." The kindly-faced old woman in the drug store, knitting in the corner and giving the boys free popsicles when they stopped by, teasing them about the way the grape flavor turned their tongues purple. There had been nothing at all suspicious about her. John hadn't even given her a second thought until it was too late.

"I would've told you. I would've."

"I know you would have," John assured him. "You did good, Dean."

Dean looked unconvinced, but he shrugged leaned against the car door. "Okay," he said. "You sure you don't want me to take first watch?" He crossed his arms over his chest, and John saw goosebumps on his skin.

John smiled and leaned forward to pull off his jacket. "I got it, son. You get some sleep."

"But you'll wake me for second watch? You need sleep, too."

"Sure thing." John leaned over and tucked his jacket around Dean's shoulders, then ruffled his hair and sat back, his smile widening at the embarrassed roll of his son's eyes. "Now go to sleep."

Dean didn't argue anymore, and before long he was breathing slowly and evenly, his eyes closed and baseball cap askew. John watched him for a bit, then twisted around to check on Sammy, still sound asleep and curled up beneath the blankets.

Facing forward again, John pulled his journal out of the bag beside him and opened it, paging through 'til he found his most recent notes. He started to add a few lines to the drawing he'd made of the symbol the old woman had been using to summon the spirits, but his mind wandered and he found himself staring out the windshield absently, chewing on his pen and idly twisting his wedding ring on his finger, watching the rain streak the glass.

Someplace warm, someplace sunny. Someplace where the boys could play outside all through the winter. That's where they'd go. The boys would like that. John only had twelve dollars in his wallet, but they had some leftover food and he could siphon gas from parked cars just as easily as buy it. And in a week or two, there would be a roof over their heads, a job that paid cash, a real bed for the boys to sleep on and new shoes for them to wear to school. It was that time of year again.

They'd go west. John always liked going west. It felt like he was going toward something, rather than just wandering or running away.


End file.
